Page 46 of Cleopatra

Apollodorus raised a questioning brow.

“I have the means to enter my own chambers unnoticed,” I told him.

There was a sound at the end of the hallway and all of a sudden Apollodorus dropped the carpet. I let out a grunt as the weight of it took my breath away.

“Kneel on the floor,” he hissed up at me from his now prostrate position.

It took me a breath to understand what was happening. But then I saw him, his golden tunic warm against his honeyed skin. Though it had only been weeks, he seemed taller, his shoulders broader. No longer was he in stasis between boy and man. Here was a king.

The expression Theos wore was one of barely concealed irritation. When I looked to his side, I understood why. Pothinus strode beside him, his droning voice incessant.

For a brief moment, Theos’s eyes met mine, before I remembered where I was. Who I was.

I dropped to the floor and stretched my arms out like I had seen servants do in my presence. As he drew nearer, I pressed my brow to the dusty floor and prayed that he had not recognised me.

His footfalls didn’t falter, but as they passed, I was able to hear his conversation with Pothinus.

“We have sent our soldiers to find her; it won’t be long before your sister is brought to justice for her crimes against the gods,” Pothinus murmured.

“She must atone for the famine she has brought to the land. The gods have willed it.” Theos’s voice was grave.

I swallowed the sound of shock that rose up from my throat. Pothinus had poisoned my brother’s blood against me.

“Indeed, she must.” I imagined the self-righteous expression on Pothinus’s face.

“And my citizens, they support my right to rule?”

“They long for it, my king.”

I could no longer hear Theos’s reply as they made their way through the palace.

“Selene?” I looked up from the floor. Apollodorus stood above me. “He’s gone.”

I stood, my legs trembling, with rage or despair I wasn’t sure. “I must make haste. Caesar has to know the truth of this matter.”

I helped Apollodorus load the carpet onto his shoulder before saying, “Thank you for your aid, weaver, I will not forget it.”

Apollodorus beamed. “Farewell, my pharaoh. May Isis bless your plight.”

I moved through the palace quickly, keeping the hood of my robes up, making it hard to navigate the many corridors. But I found myself on familiar ground soon enough, passing by the door to my chambers.

My royal guards had been replaced with Roman soldiers clad in chainmail and bronze helmets, the plumes of which brushed the top of the doorway.

I shuffled past quickly. But not quickly enough.

“Apprentice, where is your master?” one of the soldiers drawled in Latin.

I ground my teeth in frustration. I was only five paces from the entranceway to the palace, and beyond that, the means of getting into my quarters undetected.

When I tried to continue on, the soldier stepped into my line of sight. He dipped his head to mine and peered into the shadows of my hood.

“I asked you a question. Or do you not speak my language?” His pink lips parted and his tongue darted out to moisten them.

His breath smelled of fowl left to fester. It was good I had not eaten that day, as my food may have made a second appearance.

I tucked my chin to my chest to hide what I could of my features, then I replied in Egyptian, “I do not understand you, sir.”

He spat on the floor and said, “Heathen.” He dragged his eyes across my body. Despite the copious amount of fabric covering it, I felt naked. “But not all activities require Latin.”